The Red Knight

‘Good,’ said the Wyrm.

‘I’d like your help with Thorn,’ she said.

‘That’s the other side of the same coin, surely,’ said the Wyrm. ‘If you can decide for yourself about God, you scarcely need me to tackle a mortal sorcerer.’

‘It would be easy for you,’ said Mag.

‘No argument at all. In the end, that would be me putting down the dog. For my reasons.’ He put his chin in his hands.

She shook her head. ‘I understand, but I’d like you to separate the two sides of the coin.’

‘Nothing about a coin is separate,’ the Wyrm said.

‘Nothing about a coin is separate,’ said the Wyrm.

The captain looked around to find all his companions also blinking like people coming out of sleep.

‘It has been a great pleasure meeting you,’ he said. ‘The beds are warm, and the fire is real enough, and the food is, if I say so myself, exemplary. Please don’t stint with the wine. I’d be affronted if you didn’t try the harp on the wall.’ He smiled at them. ‘I have little interest in the affairs of the world, but I am choosing to help you, almost entirely to serve my own ends. Which, I will add, are infinitely less threatening to you and yours than any of the rest of my kin’s might be. I seek only to be left alone – I have my own ambitions, and they have nothing to do with war, conquest, pain, or hate.’ He smiled, and just for a moment, they saw an enormous head with fangs the length of warships, slitted eyes as tall as church spires. ‘You will be my allies. You will go out in the world and serve my ends with your own plans and your free will.’ He smiled. ‘I doubt that we will succeed, but if we do we’ll have the satisfaction of having been vastly the underdogs.’ He nodded, as if to himself. ‘Ah – the party-favours. I’ve made certain artefacts – or gathered them – for this. To each, her own. And in parting-’ The Wyrm smiled at all of them. ‘May I leave you with some genuine wisdom, in place of all the humdrum claptrap? Do well. Act with honour and dignity. Not because there is some promised reward, but because it is the only way to live. And that is as true for my kind as for yours.’

The captain was still pondering a smart remark when he realised that the Wyrm was no longer among them.

That was amazing, Harmodius said.

They lingered over breakfast.

‘The marmalade is like-’ Mag giggled, her mouth full of warm, crusty bread with rich new butter.

‘Like God-made marmalade?’ asked Ser Alcaeus.

‘I feel like a thief,’ Ranald said. He’d taken one of the swords from over the fireplace.

Tom took down the other. He grinned. ‘God,’ he said, flicking his thumb over the blade. He gave a moan of pleasure as the blade he’d chosen swept through the air.

The Keeper shook his head. He had a box in his lap. ‘I’m afraid to open it.’

Ser Alcaeus rose and took down the sword hanging behind the main roof beam – with a belt and scabbard. It matched his arms – a surprisingly short sword with a heavy wheel pommel. ‘These are things left for us. Indeed, unless I miss my guess, the whole cot is made for us.’

‘I’m not leaving until the marmalade is finished,’ Mag said, and laughed. She picked up her napkin to get the stickiness out of the corners of her mouth, and there was a chatelaine on the table beneath it – gold and silver and enamel, with sharp steel scissors, a needle case full of needles, and a dozen other objects suspended on chains – including a pair of keys.

‘Oh,’ she said, and flushed, her hand to her bosom. ‘Oh, par dieu. It is magnificent.’

Gawin tried some of the marmalade. ‘I had the most remarkable dream,’ he said. ‘I wore a green belt-’ He stumbled to silence. There was a green belt around his hips, worked in green enamel with gold plaques, and from it hung a heavy dagger in green and gold.

The captain stood under the roof beam, looking up at the spear.

‘Just take it, man!’ said Tom.

The captain rubbed his chin. ‘I’m not sure I want it,’ he said.

Take it! Take it! Harmodius couldn’t control himself.

Five feet of ancient blackthorn, knotty and yet straight as an arrow. And at the top, a long, heavy blade gleamed.

‘Someone has taken the magister’s staff, and fitted it like a glaive,’ the captain said.

Take it, you fool.

The captain rubbed his chin. ‘I’m going to see to the horses.’

So much of my power. Please? He wouldn’t have brought it here unless he trusted us to use it.

‘I can’t help but notice that his gifts either bind, are pointed, or are double edged,’ said the captain. ‘Belts and blades.’

Don’t be a fool.

Am I a fool to be slow to make use of tools I do not understand? asked the captain. The stakes are very high. I will probably take it in the end. But not right now-

He took his time currying the horses. They looked fat and happy. It had been a way of hiding from his father when he was young.

When they were all gleaming like the sun on the water of the high loch outside, he went back into the cot – so much bigger on the inside than the outside – and took the spear down from its nails.

It was a heavy blackthorn shaft, but the butt was spiked in bronze and inlaid in gold, and the head was magnificently worked – folded steel, carefully chiselled.

Oh. Empty. Harmodius lost all interest in it. Not mine at all.

The captain hefted it for a long time.

Then he frowned and tucked it under his arm.

One by one they filed out of the cot. Mag left last, and closed the door behind her.

She looked puzzled. ‘I thought it would . . . vanish’ she said.

‘He’s not showy,’ the captain responded.

They all mounted, and rode over the ridges. In two ridges, the cot was gone, hidden in the folds of earth.

‘If I ride back, will there be aught there?’ Tom asked.

The captain shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

‘You know what?’ Tom said. ‘He reminded me of you. Only – more so.’

He laughed.

The captain raised an eyebrow. ‘I think I’m flattered, Tom,’ he said.

Tom patted the sword at his side. ‘I have a magic sword,’ he said happily. ‘I want to go try it on something.’

Ranald shook his head. ‘Tom, you hate magic.’

Tom grinned. ‘Och. You can teach an old dog a new trick, if ye are patient.’

Gawin shook his head. ‘Why us?’

The captain shook his head.

They rode on.

The woodsmen were gone. There was no pile of bodies, no line of graves, no rusting tools. Merely gone.

Over the Irkill a stone bridge stood on heavy pilings, as wide as two horsemen abreast or a single wagon, and on the other side sat a new keep – a square tower – with a small toll house.

It was solid, and smelled of new masonry. The Keeper sat in the road, looking at it.

‘Open it,’ said the captain.

The Keeper looked at him.

‘The box – open it.’ The captain crossed his arms.

There was an anticlimactic moment as the Keeper rooted in his malle and emerged with his box. He opened it.

The box held a circlet, an arm ring, and a key.

The key fitted the door of the keep.

The circlet fit on his brow. He tried it and then snatched it off.